


Diptych

by adjuvantQasida



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Caning, Communication Failure, Cuddling & Snuggling, F/F, Strap-Ons, but like done by the intellectually wise and emotionally fuckin stunted, emotional masochism tbh :|
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 06:06:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14098917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjuvantQasida/pseuds/adjuvantQasida
Summary: She should stop, but she'd only be lonelier.(Moira & Angela, in: if you're gay and just dumb as fuck hit that mf kink button)





	Diptych

**Author's Note:**

> what if instead of editing and posting the chapters of don't go far off like I'm supposed to, I wrote something else entirely

Angela stifles the way she wants to pant _yours, yours, yours_ into the sheets every time Moira bends her over and fucks her, because Moira isn't interested in having a possession or a companion or even, really, a toy. Moira wants something to work her frustration out on. Every time she comes with a choked moan, moving her hips against hers, and Moira's hands are brands on her skin. When was the last time she touched anyone else without gloves in the way? When was the last time anyone had wanted to touch her?

Afterwards Moira gets up and redresses, buttoning her shirt and pulling her long, dramatic labcoat over it. Angela lies exhausted on the bed, shaking just a little, and she doesn't cry until Moira leaves. Then she can limp to the shower. She hates how much she enjoys being this well-used, how she’ll be using these memories for masturbation fodder until Moira finds her way back into her quarters.

She should stop, but she'd only be lonelier.

* * *

Moira does her best not to let any affection bleed through. Angela Ziegler, one of Overwatch's brightest stars, could surely go to anyone for that. If she came to Moira, basement denizen Moira, sharp-tongued Moira, _asshole_ Moira - well, there's one reason people keep her around, and it's not for her pleasant company. She's been approached before for her confidence and her cruelty.

This is no different, she tells herself. This is no different.

Angela lays herself out for her, lets her touch wherever she likes. The sensitive edges of her spinal prosthetic, the tender skin just below her ribs, the vulnerable curve of her neck, and above all else the soft folds of her cunt. These are Moira's, for a little while. Just a little while. (She wants, wants, wants…)

Those hips mark so easily. She must have left more than a hundred little finger bruises from pulling Angela back onto her strap-on. Once Moira caned the back of her thighs, just under her buttocks, and got to see the bruises develop in real time, nanites accelerating Angela’s healing so that they bloomed black in an hour and were nearly gone in three. The conflicting feelings of satisfaction, sexual pleasure, guilt, and the strangled desire to protect and comfort had led her to silently swear she'd never do it again.

Angela had asked for it the very next weekend, and she'd been powerless to resist.

Sometimes, exhausted from her work, resting her eyes for a minute in her lab, Moira can admit she wants more. It would be so good to wrap herself around Angela in the aftermath, or to help her into the shower and comb out her hair. But in her experience, play partners never want more from her. Maybe she's no good at aftercare. Maybe the kind of people who are attracted to her are uninterested in anything beyond sex. Maybe her nature just doesn't lend itself to comfort, emotion, or relationship development of any kind.

Maybe it's all fucking three, Moira thinks morosely to herself, and gets back to work before she grows any more maudlin. But each time she thinks about it, she gets a little closer to giving in. Just a little.

* * *

It's late September, and the nights are getting properly cold in Zurich. After Moira leaves, the bed is cold and lonely and Angela shivers herself to sleep.

Until one night, when Moira very quietly asks, “please, may I stay a while?”

Her face is turned slightly away from Angela, sharp edges lit from behind by the lamp on her bedside table. Angela knows, suddenly and irrevocably, that if she so much as says “what?” Moira will turn away, tell her it was nothing, and leave without asking again.

So instead, she rolls over in bed to make room and says, just as softly, “please.”

The first few minutes are deeply awkward, two people equally apprehensive and eager to share space. But Angela slowly scoots closer - she's always hated the cold - and when Moira gives in and gathers her up with a quiet “is this all right?” she melts.

“It's perfect,” she says, and gives up on not crying when she realizes there are quiet little tears dripping down from Moira's face onto her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> i swear to god every fucking thing i write now comes with a "don't you dare do or behave like this" button on it


End file.
